


There's a Light in Desert Places

by Sigridhr



Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, bucky has ptsd, steve rogers is an excellent friend, way too much coffee drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: Bucky struggles to adjust to being Bucky again, Darcy makes a lot of coffee, and somehow, eventually, things begin to get better.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amidtheflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/gifts).



> I blame amidtheflowers for this entirely and so should you. I was minding my own business and having a perfectly good life before she started sending me Wintershock feelings and essays on the tragi-cupcake that is James Buchanan Barnes and now here I am.

_They cannot scare me with their empty spaces  
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.  
I have it in me so much nearer home  
To scare myself with my own desert places._  
– _Desert Places_ (1936), Robert Frost

…

 

Steve’s apartment is depressingly modern, Bucky thinks. Granted, it’s still incredibly _Steve_ : orderly and simple, with few personal possessions. But Bucky misses a world where the background noise was radio still and the rush of traffic left a different hum in the middle of the city. 

Bucky has his own room, but nothing to put in it. Steve buys him a few things at first, (including a radio – but there’s nothing worth listening to on, nothing he recognizes), but then leaves him be. Steve follows like a shadow, their roles now reversed and Bucky under the long arm of Steve Rogers’ protection. But Steve has learnt to live in this age, and Bucky doesn’t want to live at all. 

He knows this frightens Steve (after all, Bucky is all that Steve has left of home, now that Peggy’s gone), but there are parts of Bucky he feels are better off gone, and little of him left to fit at Steve’s side, like jagged puzzle pieces approximating the shape of a friendship that lives on only in memory. Steve might still love him (and he does – more than Bucky deserves), but Bucky has nothing left to give in return.

The apartment’s become something of a revolving door amongst the rag-tag group of them that remain. Wanda and Sam stay often, weaving in and out of their lives in between missions (which Steve and, reluctantly, Bucky often join). He meets Bruce Banner, too, who doesn’t stay, though Steve watches him with the same concerned weariness he watches Bucky, and when their eyes meet Bucky is certain he sees a spark of commiseration. He’s tempted to leave with Banner, but Steve is the only anchor he has left and he cannot bear to shut him out. 

And then comes Thor, who, in the past Bucky would have dismissed as nonsense, but he’s seen Red Skull and lived through uncountable horrors, so what’s a Norse god to add to that list? Thor is _loud_ and genial and slaps Bucky across the back hard enough to send him stumbling. It’s Steve, then, who steps in and catches him by the arm, and Bucky feels more keenly than ever how much their roles have been reversed, and hates himself for hating it. 

Thor leaves, and leaves _them_ behind. 

_They_ are Thor’s girlfriend and her assistant, both of whom promptly take over the flat - one with scientific equipment, paper and unfettered energy and the other with snack foods and electronics, all which make noise that Bucky wants gone more than anything. Steve seems to realise, but that just makes Bucky all the more determined to grin and bear it, because the last thing he needs is _Steve_ to fight this battle for him. 

And life begins to settle into a rhythm again.

…

He’s making coffee one-handed in the kitchen when the girl – Darcy – comes in. 

“Hey,” she says, nonchalant and only half-awake as she shuffles over to the coffee and pulls a mug down, dropping it on the counter. 

She turns to fill the coffee maker with water and her elbow brushes the cup and sends it to the floor with a crash and he’s –

 _glass shatters around him as he runs, his heartbeat high in his chest beating like a drum and with a_ crack _a bullet rips past his ear._

_There’s blood on his hands, and they’re sticky as he fumbles on his gun, a thousand little cuts from the window he’s just smashed in but every motion is economical, purposeful, relentless._

_He’s on a mission –_

“Hey, hey,” he hears, and hands are on his shoulders, warm and _close_ and he reacts, shoving the body aside and rolling over his hand reaching out to break their grip and going for the throat and he –

The girl – Darcy – is on the ground, curled up in a foetal position and coughing. 

“I –,” he says.

Steve rushes into the room, half-dressed, and runs his hands over Darcy’s back checking for injuries. 

“I’m alright,” she says, waving him off and getting, shakily to her feet. “It’s my fault.”

It isn’t, of course, and as Steve’s eyes meet his he cannot bear to hold his gaze. 

Darcy gives off an odd laugh, and then, shockingly, a self-deprecating grin. “Well, I guess I don’t need any coffee anymore.” But he reads the fear in her eyes, and she stands half-behind Steve. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

She gives a half-shrug. “It’s cool. I should have watched what I was doing.” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” 

Steve ushers her out of the room and she goes willingly. He returns with a brush and dustpan, meticulously sweeping up every bit of the shattered mug and disposing of it while Bucky stands, breathing slowly, leaning against the kitchen counter. When he’s done, Steve stands beside him, pressing the warm length of his side up against Bucky and says, “you alright?” 

“No,” says Bucky. “Is she?”

“It’s not your fault, you know,” says Steve.

That wasn’t an answer, but Bucky knows it is. 

…

He avoids her after that, learning to recognise the sound of her footsteps in the hallway, tracking her voice and staying out of her way. She follows Jane around like a shadow most of the time, busy helping Jane with whatever secret thing they were working on. 

Steve said he didn’t understand it and, after asking Jane once, Bucky didn’t try. 

But the apartment is small and they both need coffee, so it’s a week later in the kitchen that she walks in on him. At first he doesn’t realise that she’s there, he’s staring down at the coffee in his cup, struck by the memory brought on the texture of the metal camping mug he’s pulled out of the cupboard, of cold steel and the flickering of an electric light.

“Hey,” she says, again, and he starts. 

She puts up both her hands in front of her and says, “whoa, sorry.” She’s backed up a step and he swallows drily, his heart thudding in his chest, adrenaline high ( _what’s the mission?_ he wonders, and his fingers twitch, _gun, I need –_ )

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

And the world closes in, and he’s in a kitchen, with coffee on the counter and early morning sun in a patch on the floor between them, and there’s Darcy, an unarmed girl in leggings and a sweatshirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should go.”

“Oh,” she replies, and she sounds almost disappointed. “I mean, you don’t have to.” 

He’s already halfway to the door.

“You don’t have to avoid me,” she says. “Like, it’s fine.” 

He stops, and stares at her. “It is not _fine_.” 

“Well, no,” Darcy says. “But it’s your house, and, well, look, I’m really sorry about everything but I don’t want to make you feel like you can’t live here.” 

He stares at her for much longer this time, so out of practice with even basic conversation that he feels stuck and at a loss as to what to do next. 

“It’s Steve’s apartment,” he says, at last. It’s inadequate, but then again, he can’t pluck a sentence out of the whirlwind of his feelings that fits this scenario. 

“Right,” she says. “Well, anyway, I wanted to say I’m really sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he says, flatly. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Right,” she says again. “Can, uh, can I make you some coffee?” 

His is still on the counter, growing cold, and there are grounds near the sink that he’s spilt (never quite able to get the hang of living one-handed). She’s shifting her weight from one leg to the other nervously, and she looks so like Steve, so desperate to help but uncertain how, that he finds himself saying: “yes.” 

“Great,” she says, edging into the room, but he notices she still keeps a bit of distance between them. “Milk and sugar?” 

“Black,” he says. 

“You got it.” 

…

The next day there’s a cup of coffee waiting for him, warming on a hotplate, with a note: _Good Morning! Accidentally made some extra. - D_

He takes it back to his room, but his hand shakes too much for him to drink it until it’s gone cold. 

…

There is coffee there every day of that week, each with a note with a different excuse ( _Jane didn’t want one and I don’t want it to go to waste_ ), all thoroughly transparent. On Friday he wakes up early and makes his own coffee. 

There’s still one waiting for him when he comes back to rinse out the mug. 

…

She’s bobbing her head to her own private tune (Steve has explained iPods and earbuds, but Bucky still finds them _odd_ ) when he walks in. She looks up and gives him a grin, and then turns back to the laptop she’s furiously typing away at. She’s stretched out on the length of their couch, her stockinged feet dangling over the arm and her head propped up on all the cushions at the other end. 

“Thank you for the coffee,” he says. 

“No worries, dude,” she replies, pulling out one earbud and giving him a grin. 

“It’s not necessary,” he says. 

She frowns, slightly, and he immediately feels guilty. But he’d still rather end this now than continue to feel – well, he’s not sure how he feels about it. 

“I wasn’t doing it because I thought it was necessary,” she says. She’s touched a line, and he can tell in her expression that she knows it. Gently touching her toe to the edge she’s pushing, to see how far he’ll go. 

“I can make my own coffee,” he says. 

“Suit yourself,” she says, with a sigh. “I just figured we could cut down on labour time and save coffee grounds. What if we split it 50/50?”

He blinks, but can think of no logical reason to refuse. 

She grins. 

When he returns to his room he has to fight the urge to lie face down in his pillow. 

…

He misses his prosthesis, sometimes so much it _aches_ , as he attempts to shower with one hand, half of his back beyond his reach, as he attempts to cook, unable to both hold and chop until his remaining hand shakes so much he has to put the knife down. He often returns to his room without food, until Steve catches on and suggests they eat together every night.

And he misses his prosthesis when he makes coffee, because lifting the lid on the coffee machine (which does not stay open on its own) has become a sisyphean task. He has to lift it with the water in hand, holding the lid up with his pinky while he tries to pour water in the top without spilling it everywhere. 

Today is not his lucky day. 

He’s mopping it up with a towel when Darcy comes in, possibly attracted by the noise of the cup he’s dropped. 

She walks over and starts picking up glass, sliding her feet carefully along the floor so she doesn’t step in anything. 

“Mondays are always shit,” she says, casually. 

“I don’t like being pandered to,” he says, more sharply than he intends, his frustration rolling off him waves. 

“No,” she says. “I guess nobody does.” She drops the glass in a bag, tying it up and tossing it in the trash. Then, she fills up a new glass and tops up the water in the coffee machine. 

“I can do it,” he says, but she’s come close enough to touch and he can feel the brush of her clothing against his as she leans over to flick it on. 

“Dude, I know – you make coffee for me half the week. I just want to caffinate.” 

Her voice is steady and she’s still standing within arm’s reach. The coffee machine starts whirring between them, and he feels his breathing begin to even out. 

“I hate this,” he says, his hair falling into his eyes, and he chucks the towel at the wall. It falls to the counter with a soft ‘floomp’. His shoulder aches, sharp and hot, and he flexes invisible fingers he no longer has. 

Darcy leans her hip against the counter, but says nothing. She’s watching him, and he turns away just to avoid eye contact. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You say that a lot,” she says. “Look, I don’t want to compare notes, and I don’t want this to come out as pity, but… I went through some shit, when we met Thor, and I don’t think it compares in any way, but, you know, people deal in different ways. You don’t need to apologise for this.” She waves her hand at the coffee machine, which has begun to gurgle as the first bit of coffee drips into the pot. “Shit happens.” 

His mouth thins. “With respect, I don’t think you understand at all.” 

“No,” she says. “But I’ll listen if you ever want me to.” 

…

They’re not so much coffee dates as they are a series of serendipitous interactions. With coffee. At least, that’s how Bucky feels about them. Darcy does more than half of the talking, but he finds he minds it less and less. At first, any noise jarred his nerves and sent every muscle in his body to the edge, but now he sips coffee with the even flow of Darcy’s chatter in the background and he feels calm – _present_. 

He clocks the feeling of the kitchen, it’s beige walls (hideous, but, then again, Steve wasn’t exactly an interior decorator), the countertops. He commits the pattern of light through the sheers as it splays across the kitchen floor to memory. He remembers the smell of coffee. The sound of Darcy’s voice. 

And then, suddenly, it’s gone. 

…

“Thanks for letting us stay,” Jane says, giving Steve a one-armed hug before jogging, as frenetic as ever, back to pick up yet another suitcase full of ‘space junk’ (Darcy’s term). Darcy is standing, one hand tucked into her back pocket, staring at him. 

“Buy me a coffee next time we see each other, eh?” she says. 

_Next time_. She gives him the same one-armed hug as Jane gave Steve. 

He still smells her for the rest of the day: lavender shampoo and coffee heavy in the air. The apartment goes quiet. 

…

There’s shooting all around, rapid-fire like his pulse, and Steve’s on his ten and they’re running. Bucky drifts in and out of the moment, memories and present bleeding together until Steve reaches out and grabs him, pulling him behind a barricade. 

Bucky closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He thinks of coffee, and the way the light goes through the sheers in their kitchen, and of beige walls. For a moment, the sound narrows to a single point of silence, and then expands out again and he can smell the metallic tang of blood (his own? He’s not sure), and the sharp edge of gunpowder. 

“You alright?” Steve asks. “I shouldn’t have let you come.” 

“You’re not my mother,” Bucky grumbles. “I can still shoot.” 

Steve looks dubious and he tries not to be insulted. But it’s true: Bucky can still shoot, but he’s not always sure what he’s shooting at. 

Natasha’s voice crackles over the com link. “They’re headed east, tailing two.” 

“We’ve got two more here,” Steve says, as the loud crack of bullets hitting the barricade breaks above their heads, and Bucky ducks a shower of concrete bits. 

“I see them,” says Sam, and his voice is steady and even. Bucky breaths in, and out. 

Then he stands, and shoots twice. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” comes Sam’s voice over the com. 

“They’re down,” Bucky says. And he breaks into a run. In his mind he repeats the mantra of things: coffee smell; beige walls; light on the kitchen floor; Darcy’s voice. The world around him blurs, but he’s present in it. Two more men emerge, black-suited and armed to the teeth, around the corner of a building, and he fights, even one-armed better than they are at hand to hand. Steve’s shield whizzes past his ear and connects with a clang, taking one of them down. The other is Bucky’s.

When his fist connects with the man’s face, he feels his stubble grate against his skin, and the sensation of teeth coming loose in his mouth. He flickers, memories of his own teeth being knocked loose, of a mouthguard – biting down hard – _coffee. Beige walls. Kitchen floor. Darcy’s voice._

The man is down, and Steve’s hand is on his arm. He tingles still with adrenaline, every nerve itching to run, to fight. 

“Alright,” Steve says. “Nat’s got the last of them. We’re done.” 

Bucky nods, and Steve stays close to him the whole way home – close enough that Bucky can feel the heat his body radiates, and he focuses on the blue of Steve’s uniform and the sound of his voice. 

When he gets home, he crawls into bed still in his filthy clothes, and dreams of things he’d rather forget. 

…

Steve buys him a phone. “For emergencies,” he says, as if that somehow made it less ridiculous. 

“You hate phones,” says Bucky. “You’re always complaining about yours.” 

“I never complain about mine,” says Steve, blandly. “Besides, what if you need one?” 

“For what?” 

“If something goes wrong,” Steve says. 

“Steve, I was trained to kill for more than half a decade and worked as an assassin throughout. Precisely what kind of emergency are you envisioning?” 

Steve shrugs, but the answer hangs unsaid in the air between them. 

Bucky chucks the phone on the table between them. “I’m not an invalid, Steve.” 

Steve slides the phone back towards Bucky with an air of finality. “Lots of people have phones, Bucky.” 

…

It comes pre-programmed with several numbers, all members of the former Avengers. He scrolls up and down the list, wondering why on Earth Steve’s added a list of people who barely know him, and some who must hate him, for him to talk to. 

He stops when he sees Darcy’s name. 

He turns the phone off and one, staring at her name, opening blank text messages and closing them, over and over for the next week straight.

…

As it has always been, Darcy makes first contact. 

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and he puts down his book (turning pages one-handed also makes him miss his prosthesis, so he reads in the comfort of his own room where the ridiculous balancing act of turning the page can be done in secret). It’s from her, and his heart lurches unpleasantly when he sees her name come up.

 _Hey, Steve said you had a phone. Here’s my number in case you ever want to buy me coffee. - D_

He takes a full day to type back, _Thanks_.

… 

He knows she’s finding excuses to talk to him, the way she found excuses to make coffee. She sends him pictures of coffee she’s made, wherever she is, and short questions about how he’s doing and what he’s reading. 

She’s more bookish than he expected, but he suspects she’d say the same about him. Slowly, inevitably, it becomes a dialogue, and Steve raises and eyebrow and grins at him after his phone chirps for the fifth time in a row while they’re in the living room. 

“It’s just Darcy,” he says. 

Steve makes a non-committal noise at that. “You two did seem to get on,” he says. 

Bucky gives him a flat look, dropping the phone onto the table with a clatter. “Do not set me up, Steve. I’m not … It would be a disaster.” 

Steve throws his hands up into the air. “I haven’t done anything.” But he grins, always easygoing. “I do think you could use a friend, though. Besides me.” 

Bucky snorts, leaning back in the chair and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

“Just make sure I’m still your best friend,” says Steve.

“What are you, five?” 

“I mean it, Bucky,” he says. “I got there first. Best friend for life.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he feels warm and alive and his nerve thrum with something that isn’t panic. 

“Sure, Steve. You wanna spit swear on it?” 

Steve grins, and Bucky can’t help but grin back. 

…

He still dreams, and he wakes from them shuddering and dry heaving, curling himself into a ball in his sweat-soaked sheets and crying. Lights pass from cars below, dashing across the ceiling above him, and he breathes in deeply. 

As quietly as he can he putters into the kitchen and puts the coffee on, inhaling the smell and closing his eyes. His sweat cools on his skin and he shivers, and his hand trembles too much to lift the cup.

 _Smell of coffee. Light on the kitchen floor. Beige walls. Darcy’s voice._

This is the first time he texts her in the middle of the night, but she replies almost instantly. He doesn’t want to wake Steve, and somehow typing into a tiny box (and God alone knew how _that_ worked) seems less confrontational. 

_Dreamt of murdering an innocent man under orders. I remember it - the smell of his blood and the look on his face as I snapped his neck. I can’t keep remembering like this._

Her reply flashes up on the screen, and he squints at it in the dim light, his eyes still adjusting. _Can I call?_

His fingers shake as he types, _Sure_. 

Her voice is tinny on the phone, and she sounds tired, but she launches right in. “How often do you have nightmares?” 

It’s too much, his chest thickens like her voice alone was pressing down on it and he can’t breathe. 

“Bucky,” she says, her voice right in his ear. “Bucky, listen to me.”

His breathing is ragged and raw and desperate, and he feels like pulling his own skin off to make the sensation – the _itch_ – of terror stop. 

“Just listen to my voice,” she says. _Coffee_ , he thinks, _beige walls...._

 _Darcy’s voice_. 

“Jane’s still trying to perfect the Einstein-Rosen bridge,” Darcy is saying, her voice low and even and still scratchy with exhaustion. “We’re currently waiting for the right storm, she needs a certain amount of charge in the air, to test the current prototype. Apparently if we get this right then she should be able to adapt it to work with a known power source, although, without SHIELD’s resources, god alone knows how we’re going to do that.” 

His breathing stills, and he slumps down against the kitchen counter, sliding down to sit on the floor. 

“We have done nothing but crunch numbers and build space machines for the last few months and I, for one, am really hoping this damn thing works.” 

“What’s an Einstein-Rosen bridge?” he asks.

“I have no fucking clue, don’t ask me,” says Darcy, and he lets out a bark of laughter. “It’s basically a bridge between realms,” she says, hesitantly. “I have no idea how it actually works but it opens a gateway for Thor to travel between here and, well, where he comes from.” 

“What do you do?” he asks. 

“Data entry, mostly, and watch cat videos. I help with what I can, but I’m not a physicist. Oh, and I make coffee.” He can hear her grin through the phone. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice raw with exhaustion. “You do.” 

“You wanna talk?” she asks, quietly. 

“No,” he says. But he stands, shakily, and pads quietly back to his bedroom. “You keep going.” 

“Oh, man, you are unleashing the _beast_ ,” she says. “I could go for hours.” 

And she does, telling him first about the work she does with Jane, and later about her university and her degree. He asks the occasional question to prompt her, but mostly he just listens to the sound of her voice, letting it wash over him. He props the phone up on his pillow next to his head and puts her on speaker, lying in his room and watching the rhythmic passing of headlights on his ceiling. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he says, at last. 

“No worries,” she replies, easily. “Anytime.” 

He falls asleep at some point, but when he wakes his phone is stuck to his face, the sun is shining in through his bedroom window and the call’s ended. 

_Sorry about last night_ , he texts. 

His phone dings in answer as he’s doing the daily prop-up-the-lid-and-pour-the-water dance. 

_Don’t worry about it. Anytime_. 

…

He’s not sure if she means it, but it quickly becomes habit. He wakes, shaking and cold, lost in places he hasn’t left nearly as far behind as he’d like. And, eventually, he grapples for his phone and sends a short text, and she calls. 

They talk about everything from stargazing to TV (she’s obsessed with something new called _Stranger Things_ and makes him promise he’ll watch it ‘after you buy me coffee’), to, slowly, talking about him. 

“We didn’t have a lot growing up,” he finds himself saying, “but my momma would save up and buy us each an orange at the end of the week if she could. Steve didn’t have much either, not when we were little. It got a bit better after that, and, well, then it was the army.” 

“Do you miss the world back then?” she asks.

“All the time.” He aches for it, for the smell of the streets and the different cadence to people’s voices, for the slang that’s all evaporated, as quickly as it had come. He longs for penny candies and talkies for 25 cents, (which meant he saved up all week for him and a date, or Steve). He missed feeling whole. 

“I can’t imagine what that must feel like,” Darcy is saying. 

“No,” he says, quietly. “But the past doesn’t have you.” 

The line goes quiet for a moment, and he wonders if he’s said something wrong – his heart skitters in his chest, and he wants to take the moment back, crawl back to how it was before – 

“Well, I suppose there is that,” she says, and there’s an undertone of laughter in her voice. 

He breathes out, long and slow, and smiles up at the ceiling. 

“I suppose there is,” he says.

…

He sees her again a month later, and it’s unexpected and heady. They’re on a mission (he goes through the motions of his usual argument with Steve about whether or not he should go, but it’s routine now and they both do it perfectly), and wind up stumbling, half injured and half drunk on adrenaline, back to a New York safehouse. 

It turns out it’s Jane Foster’s safehouse. Darcy looks him up and down in concern but he just says, “hey.” 

“Hey yourself,” she replies. “You hurt?” She looks over at Steve, and then back to Sam who’s leaning heavily on Natasha. 

Natasha says, sharply, “we could use a couch, some alcohol and bandages.” 

Darcy’s eyes widen, but, to her credit, she moves quickly, clearing the way to the living room and pulling out their first aid kit. She grimaces visibly when they lift Sam’s shirt, but stays on hand to help until Natasha’s done. Jane helps clear away the bloody bandages, and wordlessly turns up with an oversized t-shirt to replace the one they’d cut off. 

When the room quiets down, Darcy sidles up to Bucky. It’s on the side with the stump, and he represses the urge to walk around to stand on her other side, feeling awkward to have her so close, and her presence makes his shoulder ache and his phantom fingers twitch nervously. He feels a pull of a limb he no longer has, and he wants to crawl away. Instead she leans in and nudges his side with her elbow, and in that instant the phantom arm vanishes and the ache dulls. 

“C’mon,” she says, “let me show you where the coffee maker is.” 

…

When he wakes that night, he doesn’t think, but stumbles to her room. 

She’s understandably startled at first, but with a once-over she quickly pulls the covers aside and sits up, dragging him down onto the bed and tossing her comforter over his shoulders. 

There are tears running down his face and he can’t remember when he’s started crying, but Darcy wraps him, comforter and all, in her arms and holds him, and for once it doesn’t feel like a trap. 

“Shit,” she says, against the skin of his shoulder, and her hands tighten around him. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Sorry,” he says. 

She just holds him tighter. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she mutters. 

He gently pushes her arms away, wanting space and air, but missing them almost immediately. He walks a fine line of wanting both company and to be alone, wanting to be dead and be whole simultaneously, and the hot smell of burnt rubber and the sound of Howard Stark dying still ringing in his ears. 

“Be right back,” Darcy says. “Don’t move.” 

He scoots back against the wall, and contemplates going back to his own room and pretending this hasn’t happened. 

Before he can make up his mind, she’s back, and she’s brought coffee. His muscles relax against the wall as he smells it and he cradles the cup in his lap, balancing it with his hand, as she sits next to him, just brushing his shoulder with her own – a single point of contact. 

He breathes in deeply. _Coffee. Beige walls. Darcy._

“What can I do?” she asks. 

“Nothing you aren’t already doing,” he says. 

She presses her shoulder against his, and then reaches out and covers his hand with her own. He’s interlocking their fingers before he can think better of it, and she moves his cup of coffee to the window sill so it won’t spill, squeezing his hand as she does. 

“I killed a friend – someone who once was my friend,” he says, hollowly. “I remember all of it. How he looked, the sounds, the smells.” Darcy’s grip tightens, but he stares fixedly at the wall ahead of him. “I don’t remember my mother’s laugh, or how much it cost for roasted chestnuts at the fair. I don’t remember the name of the girl I went steady with. But I remember everything else.” 

Darcy leans against him, wordless, but he can feel the press of her hand against his, their heartbeats mingling in their palms. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he says, helplessly. 

She presses a kiss to his temple and pulls him down onto the bed, wrapping him in her arms, and she presses his face into the crook of her neck and breathes there. 

Perhaps he is unfixable. Perhaps there is nothing left of Bucky Barnes. 

As if she picks up on his train of thought, she speaks. “There are a lot of things from childhood I don’t remember. I don’t remember the name of my second kiss – though it was equally terrible as the first and behind the bleachers in 8th grade. I don’t remember how much allowance I got as a kid, or the name of my friend from Kindergarten. It doesn’t make you less of a person, to not remember those things. I wish you could, but it doesn’t mean it’s not there, or that the echoes of all those people and places don’t stay with you still.” 

He shifts against her, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. 

“You’re not responsible for what you did,” she says. 

He’s had this conversation before. 

“But I still did it,” he says, and her fingers close in his hair and he is pressed up against the warm line of her body, but he still feels hollow.

…

In the morning, Darcy is reading, and he finds himself curled up against her side, his head pillowed on her stomach and his arm flung over her waist. 

“Hey,” she says, when she feels him stir.

“I’m –”

“It’s fine,” she cuts him off, and then runs a hand through his hair. “If I minded I’d’ve said so last night.” 

He sits up, dishevelled and confused by the turn events have taken, and at something of a loss as to what to do now. Darcy, for her part, still has her book open, but she’s marked the page with a single finger and she turns to look at him.

“Coffee?” she says.

He nods, half tempted to laugh because it seems coffee is the language of their uncertain moments. But he doesn’t mind.

She’s back in a moment, piping hot coffee in each hand, and he’s picked up her book (a piece of modern fantasy as big as a brick full of names he can’t keep straight). 

“It’s better than it looks,” she says. 

“I would hope so,” he replies, blandly, taking the coffee from her with a quiet ‘thanks’. 

“Right,” she says. “Budge up. I’m making you watch _Stranger Things_.” 

…

They fall back into a rhythm that he’s afraid will break at any minute: quiet days of reading or TV watching, sometimes days where Darcy simply talks to drag him back and hold him down _here_ , in this place, in her bed. And at night he’s given up sleeping in his room, and he finds himself waking in Darcy’s arms after a full night’s sleep more often than not. 

And, when he doesn’t, she makes midnight coffee and talks, the way they used to on the phone. 

He feels a gratitude he cannot put into words, and a kind of tenderness when he sees her. She’s given so much for so little in return (he still doesn’t speak much, and he, quietly, finds _Stranger Things_ difficult to watch), and he wants to tell her how much it means but cannot find the words to say anything at all. Instead he pulls her close and holds her, pressing his fingers into her hip, and thinks _thank you_ over and over and over again. 

He’s in the middle of this when she ducks her head down and kisses him. It’s quick, surprisingly tentative from Darcy, who definitely seems to look before she leaps when it comes to most else. He’s too startled at first to do anything other than stare, and she blushes bright red and turns away muttering, “sorry.” 

“No,” he says. “No.” Then, carefully on one arm, he raises himself up and presses his lips to the edge of her jaw beneath her ear. Her breath leaves her in a low exhale, and she turns towards him, finding his mouth with her own.

He hasn’t kissed anyone in nearly a century. She tastes like coffee and she’s warm, and her hands tangle in his hair as he falls back onto the mattress, pulling her to him. She runs one hand down his side and then slips it beneath his shirt, skirting her way back up his chest and he presses himself against her, his heart stuttering, so blissfully, painfully _alive_.

Everything, every cup of coffee, every quiet conversation, every text has led to this and he doesn’t want to let go, let it slip through his fingers. 

Darcy pulls back, pulling her shirt off, before pausing, her hands resting on his chest and her head half-tilted. 

“Is this OK?” she asks.

He laughs. “Yes,” he says. “ _Yes_.” 

She grins and pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. He turns away from his stump, pressing a kiss to her wrist where she’s moved forward to brace herself on the bed. Her fingers gently brush the amputated arm, and he winces. 

“Does it hurt?” she asks, pulling her hand back.

He swallows. “No,” he says. 

Her lips thin, and she studies him. “It doesn’t bother me,” she says, firmly. 

“It bothers me.” 

She seems to accept that, moving her hand away from the stump and placing it on his hip. She kisses him again, gently at first, but he presses his mouth against hers and she grinds down on him until he can scarcely breathe, stumbling through this long-forgotten rhythm. She strips him of his pyjamas and her own, then his underwear, and takes his length in her hand. 

She shudders, and she grins, running her hand up and down in a few even strokes, pressing kisses to his collarbone, his jawline. Then, she flops sideways with a grin, pulling open her bedside drawer, limbs akimbo. 

“What,” he begins.

“Condom,” she says, pulling one out and opening the packet with her teeth. “This still OK?” 

He simply looks pointedly downwards and she grins, rolling the condom on and then pressing herself down onto him. He’s surrounded by heat and muscle and his fingers grip her thighs so tightly he’s sure he’ll leave bruises. He switches to the sheets, pulling them taught in his hand. And then, she begins to move, slowly at first but gaining pace. 

It’s all sloppy kisses now as he desperately tries to hold on, close to the edge as she pulls him ever nearer, and he sits up, holding her close, his hand tangling in her hair and kisses her hard, full of unspoken words, of love and gratitude. Her hair is glowing in the dawn light, bright auburn, and she throws her head back, eyes closed and mouth open, anchoring herself to him with an arm flung haphazardly around her neck. 

He comes apart, burying his face against her breast, and holds on – to this, to this moment. 

The sheets are sticky but she looks impossibly beautiful to him, light streaming in through the window and catching the curve of her hip, setting her hair on fire, warming the kisses she presses on him. He runs his fingers over every inch of skin he can reach, lax and content. 

“You alright?” she asks. 

“I’m not an invalid,” he mumbles, and she bursts out laughing. 

“I’m aware,” she says, drily, rolling over to stare at the ceiling and flinging an arm above her head. “That wasn’t what I was asking.” 

He takes stock of the room, of the sensation of the sheets against his bare skin, the curve of her hip and of her lips, the swell of her breast. He takes stock of the walls (decorated with pictures of Darcy and her friends), to the floor (hardwood with a light brown mat), to the languid feeling in his limbs. 

“Yes,” he says, at last. “I think I am.”


End file.
